


Silhouettes

by amadeussutefu



Series: Ghosts [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Choking, Comeplay, Deep solid love, Deepthroating, Dom/sub Play, Drama & Romance, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:48:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26720923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amadeussutefu/pseuds/amadeussutefu
Summary: The sequel to 'Ghosts'.Living happily in Vienna one year after their opera tour finale of The Beggar Bird, Christine and Erik have fought hard to shape their love - now marriage - into what they'd both longed for it to become. Many ghosts have been slain in the process; but will the small request Christine makes to her husband one afternoon resurrect them? Or start them on the journey of killing those ghosts once and for all?The smutty one shot I promised, that turned into a story all on its own (#sorrynotsorry).(It's gunna get sexy here, folks.)
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Series: Ghosts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944685
Comments: 32
Kudos: 54





	1. A request

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mazen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazen/gifts), [Aiahime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aiahime/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hi there! Long time no see, huh. I hope your enjoy this long-time-coming (no pun intended) sequel, 
> 
> I don't intend this one to turn out quite as long as Ghosts, but who knows. Let's see where it takes us, if anywhere beyond the smut 😉 Thanks for reading!

Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Christine von Neumann, lead soprano singer in all of Vienna and, as of last week, wife to the celebrated French composer, Erik von Neumann. Freed at last from a rather unsuccessful marriage with the Vicomte de Chagny (a process that, I am happy to report, happened without a sword fight or noose to be seen), I am now – thanks to my new marriage – a permanent and delighted citizen of Vienna.

The country of music. I have lived here almost a year. The streets are brighter, cleaner than those I knew in Paris. My husband and I still reside in our fifth-floor apartment, wood-pannelled and warm, down a city-centre cobbled road close to our opera rooms. Meg has visited us twice already, and managed to persuade Lille, my past chambermaid and present friend, to attend with her. Raoul, the ever dubious but well-meaning past love of mine remains, as always, fixated on his world of class rank of society – but he is happy, and writes from time to time to speak of the Opera House he rebuilt last year, and the daughter of a Count he has high hopes for (“this one is meek,” he wrote wryly, and I laughed out loud upon reading it. Erik had shot his eyes at me, always a little suspicious, even now, that some vestige of romantic love for Raoul remains deep in my loins. A ridiculous notion, as you would know yourself, were you a woman who expected her liberty to be respected.)

Sharing the day’s sunlit hours with music halls, costume and laughter, and the night’s darkness with my husband usually nestled between my thighs (mouth-first or otherwise), I find myself very happy. So much so that ‘happiness’ doesn’t quite reach the bone-deep satiation – the contentment – of my every day being.

Except, there is one matter that I cannot stop thinking on. In the grand scale of preferences, it is hardly one at all… but nonetheless, Erik sometimes catches me gazing out of the window, my mind entirely elsewhere, and asks softly what ails me. He misreads my expression for one of ‘lack’ - and I suppose it is, only I’d call it: hunger.

The connection I share with my husband is unlike any other I know. He is as much a part of me as I am – and I am as much a part of him as he is. We sing, compose, deplore and argue over notes and rhythms for hours, before sitting in the alcoves of one another’s bodies in warm silence: reading, writing, thinking. We pass these hours, and then lie next to one another at night, wrapped in one another’s limbs and sheets. Somehow we never tire at the sight of one another, at the constancy of our shared company. It’s as natural to have him at my side as it is for me to be alone.

And so it goes that when I daydream in this _hungry_ way, Erik is inevitably there to witness it. Seeing a growing frown line on his brow when he does, however, I’ve come to realise that this hunger of mine may be causing some misunderstandings. Though he hasn’t donned a mask in public for almost eighteen months, the scars Erik carries within are still powerful. When I am displeased for some reason or another, I know he thinks it is due to himself – though he has learned to hide that fear, after months of my insistence that he is rarely the cause. Still I see that self-doubt and worry in his eyes.

I know that I must speak with him, and clean up this misunderstanding. For my _hunger_ , while having everything to do with Erik, is not coming from a fault in his behaviour. Rather, it is a growing, surging desire for something we have not yet shared together. I don’t know if he will want us to. But to stop his misplaced worry and to uphold our openness that I cherish, I am forced to act.

“Erik,” I say one late afternoon from the sofa, after stretching my arms with a small yawn. From his armchair his eyes follow my arms into the air, before gliding down my body. At his name, look back up from his book. 

“My dear?”

I clear my throat, feeling my heartbeat quicken. (Isn’t love foolish? The person I trust most in the world is still the person I fear most, in case he should ever think any less of me.)

“I… I have had something on my mind for a while now, that I would like – to speak with you about.”

His eyes do not waver from mine as he, too, clears his throat, and quietly lays the book aside. “Yes,” he says simply.

Our apartment is orange with the glow of sunset, waiting quietly for one of us to speak again.

“It is something I… oh, I feel a little shy,” I say, licking my lips.

Erik crosses one leg over the other, and folds his hands over his knee. My heartbeat grows louder in my ears, and I smile, huffing out a small laugh. “Silly, really.”

He shakes his head just a fraction. Comforting me, even in his fear. My husband is a generous man. God pray he understands what I am about to confess. I take a deep breath.

“Our union has been the prime reason for my happiness – the happiest I have been in all my life,” I start.

He nods again, his jaw tightening a little.

“The road we took here was not easy,” I continue, “we have worked hard for what we have. And what we have is dearer to me than – than music,” I say, though in truth I cannot separate music from Erik.

His leg begins to twitch. He is waiting for my ‘but’, as if I am about to announce some sort of change of heart and a desire to imprison myself back in Raoul’s Parisian mansion.

“I would like to… continue on that road. In a specific way.” When I see his eyes drop to my stomach, I quickly avert that idea from his mind: “no no, just us.”

His eyebrows droop in relief. With such trauma from his own childhood to contend with, the idea of Erik having children of his own would take a little more getting used to. I, too, don’t want us yet to be intruded upon in such a way. I still want all of him to be mine. I am greedy.

I am hungry.

I swallow, my mouth dry. “Erik, there’s something I would like to try with you.”

His eyes meet mine again – calmer seas of blue. “Anything you want to try, I will try,” he murmurs. “What is it you desire?”

“Well, you,” I say in a high voice.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I believe you already have me, Christine. And often.”

I giggle, and his eyes hood as they bore into me. “Yes,” I say, the laughter vanishing back into nervousness, “but not in this way.”

“What way?”

I look up, willing the courage. “I should like to… give myself to you,” I say to the ceiling, feeling my throat tighten. I imagine his hand there, and shift myself against the cushion. “Give more. I should like for you to – to take.”

From the corner of my eye I see him slowly stand up, his back broad and his legs apart. He takes a step closer to my sofa. “Take what?” he whispers silkily, his eyes dancing. 

“Take me,” I say, closing my eyes. “As if with force.”

I wait for his response. But Erik doesn’t speak. And in the darkness of my closed eyes, I feel the silence in the room change. I squeeze my eyes shut hard, before daring to peak at him.

He’s still standing by his chair, but his body is now rigid. His hands are fists at his side as he stares at me, his expression a mix of many feelings I can’t separate enough to understand.

Words evaporate from my mouth. My stomach lurches.

“By force.”

I don’t dare reply.

“Why?” his hard eyes meet mine.

I open my mouth, but words still don’t come out.

“I thought you were satisfied.”

“I am satisfied! Oh Erik, it’s not that I’m unsatisfied!”

“...Then what is it? Why this, all of a sudden?”

I blink up at him from the sofa. “It’s just an idea,” I whisper. “I meant it to be – to be fun.”

His brow is creased as his eyes look away, look to the ground. “Fun,” he repeats to himself.

“Darling, what’s the matter?” I ask, slowly standing, too.

“Nothing is the matter,” he says, still looking puzzled at the floor. “I just need some time to… a moment. Just a moment.”

And with that he leaves the lounge - walks right out of the front door in nothing but his shirt and slacks. I gape after him as the door closes, standing where he left me, and have no idea what has just passed.


	2. Brandy

He returns late. I am curled in the bed in the dark, as if trying to convince myself I'm not lying awake and listening to every creak of this building, hoping it is him.

The door shuts. Footsteps move over our floorboards, our rugs. The things we share together. They soon grow louder as Erik approaches, unsteady and languid. I shut my eyes as he opens the bedroom door. The scent of night comes in with him, the smell of the streets in the cold fresh dark. Heart pounding in my chest, I listen with all my might to the sound of him entering the room behind me. 

He stumbles towards the bed.

“Christine?” His voice is ragged, a little breathless, as if he’s been shouting.

Having waited all night for him to return, I now feign sleep, still too ashamed to meet his eyes.

The mattress squeaks as he lowers himself onto the bed. “If you are awake,” he whispers, heaving with breath, “then answer me.”

“Christine,” he growls, a hand on my waist.

My eyes snap open. “Yes,” I whisper, and in an instant he has pulled me over onto my back and straddled my hips. His thick slacks scratch through my thin shift as his legs clamp together around me hard, squeezing my hips. I gasp as he finds my wrists and pulls them above my head, pinning them to the pillows. In the darkness I can make out his silhouette but not his face, and as he leans closer towards me, I smell his breath.

Brandy.

“So this is what you want?” he says through gritted teeth. “You enjoy this?” And he yanks at my wrists again, causing me to I cry out in pain. “Erik –”

“No more gentile Erik?”

Specks of saliva land on my face - his weight is too much – I writhe around to try and throw him off, to create some space between us, but don’t succeed. “Erik, you’re hurting me!”

And as if I’ve branded him with a heated iron he throws himself off and away, heaving with breath on the other side of the bed.

We both lie there in the dark, shocked and panting. I draw my arms down, folding them slowly over my body. I resist the urge to rub where he has grabbed me. Already I feel the wave of guilt and shame crash over him, that old familiar struggle and self-loathing. I tremble in the sheets, frightened for the first time since we first made love. What has happened?

“Erik...” I say gently, but he backs away from me, scrambling off the bed with a wobble.

“You said it yourself,” he slurs through his teeth, addressing the corner of the room, “we have worked hard to get here. Such demons I have never faced, and fought, to deserve you.”

I watch, wretched, as the dark silhouette of his back curves in. Erik folds into himself and his shame. “After all that… you want him back,” he says hoarsely. “The violence, the fear. The control. “Force,” you said. You want it back.”

I scramble onto my knees among our sheets, horror-struck. “No! Erik, listen to me. Listen!”

He slowly turns his body to face mine, head bent.

I disentangle myself from the bed, shivering, and gently approach him. “Never. Don’t you see? It’s precisely because you are no longer that man, that I can ask you this. That I could even desire it.”

He shakes his head as I come close. I stop, and wince as I hear a small sob escape him. “Am I not enough? Do we not have enough?”

I stifle my own sob. “We have more than I could ever have dreamed of having.”

“So why?”

I hesitate. “I don’t know where the desire comes from. It’s something so deep within me that I cannot recognise its shape, or its origin. All I know, is that I could only ever enjoy such a thing if I felt safe and loved. And I am safe when I am with you.”

He scoffs.

I put a tentative hand on his arm. It tenses.

“Erik, I can’t explain it, but I’m trying. And that’s all I’m asking of us both. To try. If we don’t like it – if it isn’t what either of us thought – then we stop.”

He takes a deep, shaking breath, and puts a tentative hand over mine. A surge of relief floods me.

“You want me to treat you roughly.”

“The pretence of roughness. Yes.”

“You want to be in pain?”

“Only in so far as it gives us both… pleasure.”

He shakes his head disbelievingly.

“Just as when I take you in my mouth,” I murmur, “and ask you to push in deeper. It is the same thing – I like the feeling of you filling me, surrounding me, taking me for your pleasure – that I could give you that sort of pleasure is a gift. If it comes with discomfort, then that is… more of a gift to give. It makes me feel powerful. To choose to give you my power _is_ powerful. At least… it is to me.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Does it detest you?” I ask, swallowing down a lump in my throat. “You think it strange.”

“No,” he says roughly, removing his hand from mine.

“Then what?”

He turns away from me, muttering something too quietly for me to hear.

"Sorry, love, I - I couldn't - "

“I fear he will return.”

I don’t understand his meaning right away, but then I do: the man Erik feels he was before. The Phantom he can no longer equate with his own self.

“He won’t,” I say with confidence.

“He could still be inside of me.”

“He _is_ you,” I say, “and who you are today is different to that time. I do not have that fear.”

After a long moment, he turns, and lays his head on my shoulder. “Then you are lucky.”

I put my hands in his hair, and stroke his head. “I am,” I whisper. “And amazed everyday at your strength and will. If it upsets you, then let’s talk no more about it. I’m sorry, it never occurred to me that such a suggestion would bring this up.”

“Don’t,” he says, raising his head and taking my hand sharply in his. “Never apologise for being honest with me. I am happy you were.” He brings my hand up to his cheek, and kisses it firmly. “These are my demons.”

I blink back tears, hating what I have made him relive tonight. “Let’s go to bed,” I whisper, shivering in the open air. “It’s late.”

“I must wash,” he mutters. “Return to the covers. I won’t be long.”

I do as bid, and curl up tight within them, wiping my eyes on the back of my hand.


	3. Commands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's take the train to sexy town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait, folks - #lockdownlife, am I right? I hope you find it worth waiting for!

Finally, Erik comes in, shy and subdued, his hair a mess – and removes his shirt, slipping in between the bedsheets, his body facing mine. In the warm silence, he touches his forehead to mine. “Turn over,” he whispers, and wraps his arms firmly around my middle, pulling my back firm against his chest.

“I love you... so much...” he slurs into my hair. Before I have time to return the sentiment, he begins to snore. Even in his sleep, his arms don`t slacken around me. I nestle into him further, finding comfort in his familiar heat and soapy smell, even as my chest tightens. I close my eyes. That look on his face... I never want to see it again. But my sorrow isn't all for Erik. The narratives I have pictured so many times, imagined so often... I must say goodbye to their becoming a reality. What pleasure could I possibly gain if they were to come true, if it cost Erik's peace of mind? The excitement and allure around those fantasies has brought out something fundamentally... _me_ in myself, and it has taken almost a year for me to be brave enough to voice them. But it is a part of my make up (the _only_ part, I remind myself firmly) that will have to stay unshared in this marriage.

I have at last come upon something in me that Erik can't cherish.

My throat tightens. _Don't be ridiculous Christine. You have_ _a man beside you, drunk on brandy, yet holding you close and professing love._ I knew of far worse stories of drunken husbands. But even so, I find myself wiping a tear from my nose.

 _This had to happen sometime_. _No lifelong companionship between two individuals could be without its challenges_ _entirely_ _. You are still the luckiest of women._

Yes. _That, I kn_ _o_ _w._

*

The next morning I'm making coffee when Erik slopes into the kitchen, wearing his crumpled shirt from yesterday, and holding his hand up against the sunlight that pours through the window, wincing.

“Good morning,” I say. “It's almost brewed.”

“You're an angel,” says Erik, groaning as he lowers himself into a chair like an elderly man. After a pause, he adds: “I was a monster last night. I'm sorry.”

I turn back to the coffee pot. “Thank you. But it was good that you were honest with me. I want you to feel able to be.”

“Of course,” he murmurs. “Though it took far too much of the devil's liqueur.”

 _Yes, quite,_ I think, as he groans heavily again for effect. He rests his elbows on the table, holding his jaw in his hands, and says after a moment: “...as I hope you can be with me.”

I hold out the cafetiere. “Sugar, I take it?”

He closes his eyes, and nods with such reverence that I laugh. I place the coffee cup before him, and hesitate. “Actually, I – I think I'd like to drink mine in more comfort. I'll sit in the lounge.”

Erik grunts as I depart, carrying my own steaming cup. No, I can't meet his eyes yet and say I feel fine. I don't. And I don't want to lie. So I will take some time alone, and Erik will respect that wish as he always does, until I know what to do with these feelings.

*

Days, then weeks go by, since our argument. I know Erik hasn't forgotten about it, because of his new energy in pleasing me in bed. It is delicious, as it always is, making love with the man I love – exciting and unpredictable and frantic and wanton – all the things I want it to be.

_Except._

I steal moments away from him, sometimes, touching myself to the augmented memory of his recent attentions. My body and sexuality does not belong to Erik entirely, and I feel no shame in pleasuring myself without him – but altering his past actions in my mind to suit my deepest desires doesn't make me happy.

On such a day, after an amorous session in bed, a topless Erik clutching a towel re-enters the bedroom from washing to find me with my fingers between my legs. He looks surprised. “My dear. Are you not yet fully satisfied?”

I hold his gaze, knowing he can see every inch of me as my legs splay open before him, and continue to circle my knot of pleasure. “I felt there was potential for... something additional.”

“Look at you,” he murmurs, walking slowly towards the bed, his eyes feasting over my form.

“Is it wrong of me?” I whisper, as his eyes lock again with mine. 

“Wrong? My darling, no.” He throws aside the towel and climbs softly onto the mattress, making his way on all fours towards me before settling at my side on his knees, hands on his thighs, watching hungrily as my fingers speed up their attentions. 

“I am so wanton,” I say, and he stifles a groan, eyes widening at my speech. “So endlessly hungry for my Erik. I cannot help it.” 

H e pant s softly, transfixed on my hand. I sto p , and could laugh at the small frown that appears on his face –  but I do not . “I will stop, if you ask me to," I say seriously. "I will behave myself, like a proper lady.”

I watch him, waiting. He swallows.

“What should I do?” I whisper. “Should I stop?”

He jerks his head once in the negative.

“So I should... continue? Continue, as I think of you?”

He nods slowly, tongue darting out to lick his lip.

“Yes?” 

“Yes.”

“Do it?”

“ _Do it._ ”

His quiet command sends a stab of pleasure through my loins. “With your permission, then,” I say softly, and gently slip my fingers inside. We moan together at the quiet sound of my slickness. I wonder that he can't hear my heart beating. “Oh, Erik,” I moan, plunging my digits in deep. And all of a sudden, Erik growls and clasps both of my heaving breasts with open palms, pressing them down hard towards the mattress. I gurgle out a groan, instantly on the edge. “Thank you,” I gasp, almost at my peak. His open lips seal my gasping mouth, his tongue plunging into my mouth as my fingers do my soaking centre. I arch into him, body lifting from the mattress as I cum, crying out into his waiting mouth. 

He throws an arm beneath the arc of my back and holds me there, holds me up, as I spasm in the air, taking the last stabs of pleasure from my fading orgasm before draping, limp, against him. He lowers me softly back to the bed, as breathless as I am. 

When I finally open my eyes, I find his still i nches from my face, alight with fire. 

“Thank you,” I whisper huskily again, “for allowing me such pleasure.”

H is eyes smoulder. “Have you another within you?” I glance down at his tented breeches, and look up at him through hooded lids. “Is that a question? Or a command?”

He stares at me for a moment, taken aback a little, before narrowing his eyes as he watches my face closely. “I command you. Touch yourself.”

The effect is immediate. I exhale hard through my nose, eyes drooping, and I see him grow amazed – then hungry – as he watches my transformation. Still holding me on the bed, he says: “Begin.” 

“I – I want you to...” I gasp, sinking into a depth of arousal I have never felt before. Lifting my tingling fingers, I refer him to his own evidence of desire, stiff and straining between his legs. 

“You want me to what, Christine?” His voice is dark and rich, dripping with his arousal. 

“You know,” I gasp, letting my head fall back to the pillow, entire body on fire, my mind unable to see through the haze. 

“You want me to _pull on myself_ , as you touch your place of pleasure?” 

I groan loudly, closing my eyes. 

“Would you like that?” he growls. “You would?” But I am beyond words. “Then open your eyes.”

Once  he's  sure I'm watching, he yanks apart his breeches' laces and plunges a hand inside, pulling out his  leaking c ock before taking my hand and shoving it to wards my soaked core. “ Touch yourself. And watch me.” 

Our greedy eyes roam over one another's busy hands, creased brows and open gazes as our pantings fill the room. My face crumples as I near my rise, so sensitive already from his words – he sees it, and pulls himself harder, teeth baring – he's the most beautiful, raw thing – and as my breath hitches, he grits out his final command: “come. Come for me.” 

Tingles burst behind my eyes and fingertips  as my hips buck against the bed. Erik groan s aloud and a warm wetness hits and covers my stomach. My eyes spring open, seeking his gaze - he's on his knees beside me, gasping above me, as the last of his seed splurges down and over my body.  Panting in the aftermath of this new frontier, we stare at one another as if we're new lovers: amazed, but a little shy. 

He falls back down to his kneeling position beside me. “Christine,” he whispers. “You are... that was... I'm...” but his eyes widen a moment as he looks me over. “I – I'm sorry,” he says hoarsely, “for the mess.” 

I shake my head emphatically. “I loved it.”

His face softens. With a hand in my hair he reaches down and kisses me fully on the mouth, and then again on my nose. “I understand,” he murmurs, nuzzling my neck. “This is what you mean. Or at least... the start of it. Control. Commands.”

I nod drowsily into the side of his face as he lowers himself onto me, his weight and seed delicious as it sandwhiches between us. We both groan.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Something shared. A connection. A play of power.”

“There is more?”

I stroke his head, nuzzling his hair. “If you are willing... there is more.”

He pauses a moment, before setting my heart alight: “then let us try.”


	4. Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine's the cat who gets the cream.  
> ... From a dairy stall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope you're all OK out there, wherever you are in the world. Enjoy! x

I am fascinated by what makes my wife wet. That _I_ have anything to do with it, is certainly bewildering – but by God, I am thankful for it.

It is enough to make a scarred man believe he is blessed... should blessings exist.

With apples fragrant in the spring air of Vienna's city market, I stare at the back of my wife's neck peeping out from between her parted curls: the spot I kiss when wrapped around her form as she bends towards sleep, and mewls like a purring kitten in my arms.

She bends to accept the vendor's fruit for our pantry, and I lick my lips. My fingers itch to clasp her there – to feel the quickening of her pulse, her shoulders loosen, her ache straining against her efforts to hide the secret of her bloomers soaking in public – but I curl my fingers into my fist instead, and wait for her to pay for the fruit.

It has been almost a week since she demonstrated her desires to me. The conclusion of that evening had quashed some of my endless fears of harming her, should I fulfill her wishes – but not enough to know what to do next. Her fantasy world of “force”, as she so elegantly put it, was hardly alien to me... but to _play_ at force with a willing, dripping Christine certainly was, and a surprisingly pleasing one. While my fear of doing Christine harm in any way remains ever present, how eagerly she succumbed to my commands has been a delicious, haunting influence in my wanting to try it again.

The rise and fall of a particular phrase the orchestra sings from their strings; the mundane, dribbling juices of a peach coating my fingers; Christine's laugh tinkling through our home as she reads one of Meg's letters in another room... these inconsequential moments have daily brought the memory of her panting submission dancing to the forefront of my mind's eye, forcing my legs to cross over my bulging slacks and my resolve to hold out until nightfall, when her small naked body is ready and fitted against mine, and I may gently enclose her wrists in my hands, and furrow myself inside of her.

I rub my upper lip as Christine turns to me brightly, her apples stowed in her bag. “Any fish?”

I cough slightly. “Perhaps steak,” I respond, as she ties her bag closed. “I shall cook tonight. Have we any butter?”

“We'll need some,” she replies airily, seeking the dairy stall. Her curls dance a little. I follow them down the cobbles as we join a line of people waiting to be served. Inevitably, one of them turns towards us and jerks back, horrified, to see my face beside them. A mutated carcass does this to people; one can hardly blame them. I raise an eyebrow, but this is no gentlewoman – she does not know not to stare. I turn my back to her, lean in close to my wife, and murmur: “you will buy some cream, too.”

Christine looks up at me, surprised. As surprised as I am, endlessly, to find no horror in _her_ chestnut gaze. “What for?” she asks. I look over her head and step closer still, murmuring into her hair: “I said that you will buy the cream. Do you question me, Christine?”

I hear her gasp into my coat's lapels, and smirk. Her body melts towards mine and I now raise my hand, wrapping it gently around the back of her neck. “You will do as I say?” I whisper, squeezing slightly.

She can barely speak. I am a wall of blazing want, but she will not see it. Not here.

_Not yet._

“Yes,” she finally breathes, and I release her. “Good,” I respond mildly, kissing her forehead and stepping back. “Good, Christine.”

She touches my chest softly with her palm, pressing against me to push herself back into the world around us as it carries on, pulling us along in its current as the queue for butter and cream moves forward, and the woman beside us gapes that a woman as beautiful as my wife willingly stands alongside of me.

*

Her anticipation has been building the entire journey home. I can see it in her clasped fingers as we jostle along in the public coach; in her eyes staring, unseeing, out of the window, her mouth slightly open – tongue pink and wet beyond her pearls of teeth.

Laying the bags softly onto the table as I stand in the kitchen doorway, she unpacks everything neatly in a row: apples, butter... and cream.

She swallows, stands back, and looks up at me. Leaning against the door-frame, my arms crossed loosely over my chest, I feign ignorance to her expectations, and lock her gaze into mine. “Are you done?” I ask.

She licks her lips. “I have finished unpacking.”

“Well, then,” I murmur, standing up straight and loosening my arms. “Come here.”

Her eyelids droop. She obeys me readily, coming to my side and gazing up at me through her eyelashes. My cock stirs beneath the coat I have not taken off.

“You have done as I have asked, today,” I continue, forcing my breath to stay steady as I see her chest rise and fall sharply in anticipation. “You have pleased me greatly. What a sweet... _submissive_... wife, I have.” I take her chin gently in my hand, stroking once at the soft skin beneath her jaw, before tilting her face towards me to lengthen her neck. “Good wives are rewarded,” I whisper. She closes her eyes. “What would you like as your reward, Christine?”

Her breath escapes her. Her cheeks are flushed. How I could turn and bend her over this table now. But I don't.

I wait.

“.... I would like... to....”

“... Yes?”

“... I would like to – to take you in my mouth. On my k-knees.”

Thank god her eyes are closed. My play mask almost falls as my cock jerks up in attention. “Here?” I ask, amazed as ever at the calmness in my voice that is nowhere in my body.

  
She nods against my hand, and I run a finger lightly down the length of her bared neck to the music of her bit-back moan. God, she would let me ravish her, now. The power is almost overwhelming – the desire to thrust into her without preamble – but then I would not hear her mewling little cries, her earnest guttering groans as I plough her, wet and ready.

This play had nothing to do with holding control over my wife, as she thinks it does – no, it is a test of my own control.

I growl in my throat, and step back. “Undress for me.”

Her mouth falls open. Her eyes hood. She brings her hands to her swelling breasts and begins to untie the stays that keep them hidden. I allow a small smirk to spread over my face to show pleasure at her submission, and wait until her form is entirely bare to my hungry eyes, my tenting slacks, before flicking my gaze back to her eyes. “Stay.”

She doesn't move a hair as I head back towards our lounge and collect a small cushion. Returning to the kitchen, I bend and place the it at her feet. “Are you cold?” I murmur as I stand again to my full height. She bites her lip, shakes her head. Her nubby pink nipples tell me otherwise. I can no longer hide my desire, and grasp the strings of my slacks. “On your knees, then,” I growl, yanking open my slacks and raking my hands immediately through her hair as she lowers, roving them across her small face, to her mouth. I push my fingers into her cheeks, parting her lips as she elicits another gasp, her wet eyes gazing up lovingly, needing, at me, her trust and love and desire overwhelming my senses.

I hold her hair, and at the look on her face, grasp tighter. She gasps in pain and I swallow, suddenly unsure. “You will touch my thighs, should you be in pain, or wish to stop?” I whisper.

Her gaze returns to my face, the serene expression back in full force. “It is perfect,” she whispers. “But I swear that I will.”

Tenderness fills me at her trusting gaze and I smile at her, chest tightening at her absolute perfection, before she nods, and then nods again, her need in her eyes. I wrap my hand with her hair once more and tighten it, slowly this time, watching closely as she allows her head to be pulled back. “Yes,” she hisses to herself.

It's all the confirmation I need.

Thrusting down my slacks with my other hand I hastily pull out my cock, straining against the very skin encasing it, and push Christine's wet open mouth onto its waiting heat.

“Ah,” I gasp, resisting the urge to thrust too soon. “My God. My angel.” Hand still twisted in her curls I push her face further into my crotch, waiting until her nose is nestled up against my coils and her throat pulses around my tip, her breath cut off as I fill her entirely before pulling back, hearing her hard intake of breath through her nose that releases again with a mouth-crammed moan as I shove back in.

“My angel,” I groan, “my Christine!”

And with both hands I hold her face still as I mount her, legs stepping over her shoulders, pushing my cock in and down, my gaze locked with hers, her streaming eyes and reddening lips and knitted brows, her clawing breaths between each of my thrusts punctured with a moan from her own, cock-filled throat as dribble slides slowly down her chin.

Still I listen for a change in her demeanor, for a tap on my leg that says “enough” - but she does not, and I do not stop, and as I near my climax, I pant down at her: “where, my angel? Where? Your chest?”

Her eyes slide shut in answer. When she opens them again, I shake my head once. “You are sure?”

She slides them shut once more, and straggles out a sound of affirmation between my thrusts. With my trepidation fading, I yank back her hair, take aim at her flushed, delicate face, and spray my seed with a cry.

She mewls and writhes over her cushion as I drench her, spurting again and again – my body empties, exalting, singing, inexhaustible in the deliciousness of marking her as my own with my scent.

Expunged, exhausted, I loosen my hold on her hair. We pant into the quiet kitchen. I brace myself against the table to stay upright, blaspheming and babbling out compliments, flattery, exaltation at her very being – all of it true, all of it panted in absolute satiation. Dripping with seed and dribble, Christine rests herself against my legs, gasping.

Awaking from my dazed aftermath, I blink, and search for a towel. Pulling one from the cupboard, I tuck myself back into my slacks and lower gently to my knees, leveling with Christine. I hold it out to her, and return my hand to her hair, stroking her head.

She blinks blearily, awaking from her own daze, and with a brilliant, tired smile, takes the towel. “Thank you,” she murmurs, and wipes her face clean.

I search her over. “Are you... are you well?”

She laughs behind the towel, and lowers it to meet my eyes. She places a hand on my cheek, and I realize it is creased with worry. I clear my throat, embarrassed.

“I am in Heaven,” she replies, smirking. I smile, take her hand in mine, and kiss her knuckles. As she readjusts herself, I see a dark stain on the cushion, seemingly growing. It is my turn to smirk. “What's this, Christine?”

She looks down. Now she is the one embarrassed. My smile widens.

“It is no-”

“Go the bed and lie down,” I order softly, licking my lips to be clear. “We're not done, yet.”

The fire in her eyes rekindled, I watch as she leaps up from the floor and runs to the bedroom. I pick up the cushion and look at the evidence of her satisfaction. She is not afraid of me. _She is not afraid of me._

 _One day_ , I vow, _with toil and trust,_ _I will be as brave as her._


End file.
